Vodka
by Wicked.Intentions
Summary: Nazi Zombies! Tank/Nikolai. Tank ponders Nikolai's relationship with his vodka.


**Disclaimer:** _Call of Duty: World at War_, all characters and settings, and anything else you would recognize as pertaining to this video game does not belong to me. The plot itself belongs to me. I do not intend to make any money off the writing of this fan fiction; it is merely for entertainment purposes.

* * *

**Title:** _Vodka._

**Story Summary: **Tank ponders Nikolai's relationship with his vodka.

**Story Pairing:** Tank Dempsey/Nikolai Belinski.

* * *

"Out of all of the things you could have brought with you, why did you bring vodka?" Tank shot this question at Nikolai suddenly one day, forcing him from his hourly guzzling of the alcoholic beverage with a slow lick of his lips.

"Why not?" Nikolai replied with equal disdain immediately, collecting the precious drops from his lips with a final swipe of his tongue. He let out a sigh, and settled back against the wall he was leaning on. He felt a pleasant warmth overcome his weary body in a way nothing else could ever compete with.

"Normal people would bring… fuckin'… food… or toilet paper…" Tank's eyes screwed up in thought as he named off items that held significance with him. The list was decidedly short, he realized with a start.

"Vodka is all the food this Soviet needs," he was told rather sagely. "And toilet paper... what do you think Nazi papers are for?"

Tank nodded absentmindedly, scratching the side of his chin idly. It was true. Richtofen would be extremely pissed if he knew that his research was not only ruined in the path of the rampaging zombies and instead, also used to wipe up shit, but who really cared about what that bastard thought? In his opinion, it was the best use for something written in the language of the Nazis.

"Anyway, this vodka tasted better when you were downstairs. Leave me and my vodka in peace." The Russian waved a dismissive hand, losing his balance briefly before leaning steadily once again. He was situated near the window that opened at the Juggernog machine, which saved their asses on a daily basis. The boards were freshly repaired on the window, nailed in drunkenly by Nikolai, who boasted to be quite the carpenter. He was currently drinking his refractory period away happily until the next horde swarmed them and they were forced to retreat back to their respective zombie-slaughtering locations.

Tank, who was not at all keen to being dismissed so easily, stubbornly held his position near the intoxicated soldier. "Yeah? Well, too fuckin' bad. I'm stayin'."

Nikolai let out a long sigh and flung an arm over his eyes. "Is time for resting and gathering strength until we are—how you say—'swamped with the freakbags' again. This is not my idea of resting." He directed a droopy-eyed glare at Tank from under the cloth of his sleeve, lifting his bottle in preparation for another swig of his drink.

Tank's hand shot out and gripped firmly onto the bottle, tugging it from the other man's grasp.

However, the man clung possessively to the bottle like it was a lifeline. "What the fuck!" burst out of Nikolai's mouth in obvious protest to this change of events. "Get your own vodka!"

"I don't have any of this shit! Just let me see it for a minute!"

"Give it back, American, or you will become intimate with my weapon soon!"

"Yeah? Try it, and you'll meet my own machine gun!"

Both men, one of their hands unrelenting on the bottle and the other inching toward their idle weapons at their sides, bared teeth threateningly at each other.

"Vhy not fight to zhe death for it?" a passing Richtofen supplied unhelpfully, arms full of MP40s, before continuing up the staircase towards the weapons box's current location. They heard a rather disturbing chortle escape the unstable man, bouncing off of the bare walls encompassing the staircase and towards their sensitive ears.

As if linked in their thoughts, they rolled their eyes simultaneously and muttered distastefully, "Fucking Nazi…" They shared a painfully awkward chuckle following a slight pause.

Nikolai took this moment to wrench his precious alcohol from the greedy fingers of the American and deposit it in a special holster on his belt. This was a necessity for any Russian, as just evidenced.

Tank stepped back and crossed his burly arms over his chest, eyeing the holster with a critical eye. "I don't suppose they ever taught you manners in the Old Country?"

"I could say same thing about you and your own country."

The American grumbled, uncrossing his arms and fingering at the trigger of his MG42 longingly. "Fine. I'll leave you alone." He turned and left to a noise of victory from the Russian and a, "I think Nikolai just won great battle over American!"

* * *

A couple weariness-inducing hordes of zombies later, and the air having finally cleared of the extensive amounts of testosterone being released through egotistical comments from each nationality trying to gain dominance over the others, they loosened their death grips on the weapons that allowed them to live again and met in the mainframe to insure that they had all survived.

Richtofen, emanating creepiness from every pore, did nothing of the sort, scanning his medical-experienced eyes over his comrades, hoping to find one of them too injured to continue. He longed to aim his beloved Wunderwaffe DG-2 at one of them to "put them out of their misery," though it was agreed among them all that an electrical death would not be one of quick painlessness.

Unfortunately for him and fortunately for the others, none of them were too battered that they could not patch themselves up (or with the help of him, as he _was_ a doctor) and return later for more ripping up of undead, putrid flesh with bullets of lead or electricity.

"You all look fine," Richtofen decided outwardly, taking his leave with a jerky nod of his head. He descended the staircase that led to the area where the others were stationed in front of the Pack-a-Punch machine and teleporter and ascended the steps to the right, disappearing behind open doors in the dim lighting towards Teleporter B Room.

Takeo bowed to them both respectfully. "I thank you for yet another successful survival against our vast number of enemies." He chose to go the opposite way the doctor had, taking his route through the Animal Testing Lab.

Having fought on separate teams, Tank with Richtofen and Nikolai with Takeo, they had not seen each other for quite some time. Nikolai had long since forgotten their little altercation earlier and cheerfully ranted about the kills he had achieved. Regretfully, he added that he might need to replace his PPSh-41 soon due to the lack of ammunition for it.

Tank patted his recently upgraded MG42 with a cheeky grin. "I still got plenty of ammo left for this baby."

The Red Army soldier shrugged nonchalantly. "No worry. I shall get another PPSh-41 in no time."

Chattering on about weapons and whatnot, they soon realized that they were spending their resting period with _each other_. In the _mainframe_.

"Well, if you excuse me, I have other thing to attend to," Nikolai broke through the silence, clearly speaking of his need to become pleasantly buzzed once again.

Tank turned his attention to the bottle of vodka still swinging at his side. He nodded in understanding, watching as the man took his leave through the Animal Testing Lab.

Oh, no, he wasn't giving up that easily just yet.

* * *

Nikolai let out a relieved sigh as he looked around the large room that was protected with solid fencing. The Teleporter C Room loomed gravely above him, a neon blue, glowing Swastika visible through the grimy, glass-less windows from the balcony he was situated on. He leaned forward against the railing of the balcony, staring fixedly on the oppressive symbol, lost in thought.

He vaguely registered footsteps sounding from his left, but he paid no heed to them. However, when the footsteps quickened into a dead run, his attention was diverted from the Swastika to where whoever was advancing quickly towards him. He barely had time to comprehend the blur of green before he was tackled roughly to the metal grating of the balcony, the jagged parts of it digging up into his spine through his heavy military-issued clothing.

He groaned loudly in pain, rubbing the back of his head, which had smacked soundly against the structure, causing lights to burst in front of his vision temporarily. "What… the fuck?" he ground out, struggling to focus on the shape positioned just above him, harboring a decidedly smug grin that could only belong to a certain American.

"Hey, asshole, you wanna share your vodka with me yet?" Tank inquired, leaning down to peer at him scrutinizingly. "I didn't kill you with that awesome move, did I?"

"Ugh, goddamn… American," Nikolai gurgled through his pain-induced haze. He suddenly felt hands groping around his waist for the bottle of vodka that had surprisingly not shattered with the impact of the fall the soldier had taken. He panicked and his hands shot out, gripping the upper arms of the other man, pushing him away with all his might.

Tank remained firm in his spot, straddling him tightly like a horse. "Stop bein' difficult. I won't drink it all."

"No!" Nikolai exclaimed, feeling his bottle loosen with the efforts of Tank. He bucked his hips wildly, struggling to unseat the weight atop him. He wriggled desperately away from the wandering hands, which were suddenly not near the vodka bottle any longer.

They froze in horror, realizing that Tank's hands were planted on his groin.

"What the … hell… are you doing?" Nikolai spat out confusedly. "Get your hands off me!"

"Oh, c'mon, it's not like I tried to grab your crotch. If you hadn't been all over the place, my hands wouldn't have been moved." Tank made no effort to move his hands. In fact, a rather lecherous smile crawled into place on his rugged face.

Fingers dug into the fabric of his pants, and Nikolai panicked further. The curious digits made contact with a very intimate part of him, and he bit his lip until it bled as his groin stirred in his arousal. Still, he continued to fight. He threw his weight against the American, desiring the dislodgement of the man.

When a nimble, strong hand dove into his pants and wrapped around that slightly aroused part of him, he opened his mouth and instead of exploding into a frenzy of Russian swear words like he had hoped he would, he let out a rather unmanly groan, twisting his hips upwards in encouragement unwillingly.

His vision was filled with the sight of that cocky, knowing smile of the Marine. "Aha, Nikolai likes?" His grip tightened further, nearly to the point of strangling his organ, and Nikolai was rendered boneless, his vision cloudy. This cloudy was much different from the one he gained from massive consumption of vodka, though, and much different from what he was accustomed to.

The fingers slid upward in a near-stroke, giving him a teasing spark of pleasure before the hand withdrew from the confines of his trousers completely. Nikolai found himself immediately lacking the proximity of a certain American, as well as his precious bottle of vodka.

He watched in unrestrained fury as Tank took a swig from his bottle and promptly spat it out at his feet. The unwanted liquid trickled through the grating of the bridge to the blood-stained cement below.

"Either this is shitty alcohol, or you've backwashed enough for this to not even be considered vodka anymore..." His face contorted with disgust at the thought, and he dropped the bottle on Nikolai, who elicited a sharp exhale at the impact.

"Vodka is not for American," Nikolai defended at the retreating, green-clad back.

Tank paused before flashing a toothy grin at him. "But I know what _is_ for this American." He gave him an appraising look, especially at the bulge in his pants tenting upwards at him.

He saluted Nikolai back. "At ease, soldier."


End file.
